


A Staircase of Green Neon Lights

by morituritesalutant



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Flirting, I love that in a (wo)man: passion? no violence, M/M, POV Porthos, Past Porthos/Flea, Pining, Pining Aramis, Slightly Reckless Behavior, Smoking, background Athos/d'Artagnan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-17 00:32:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14821844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morituritesalutant/pseuds/morituritesalutant
Summary: Porthos is simply trying to escape the crowds in the art gallery when Aramis barges in and dares him. Aramis is also really gorgeous, that certainly helps his case.





	A Staircase of Green Neon Lights

**Author's Note:**

> I still love these characters so much, I'm sure there is someone out there who feels the same!!

Porthos is hiding on the fire escape outside the gallery, enjoying the peace and fresh smell of the ever-rotting Seine, when Aramis comes bursting out.

He barges onto the small platform linking the stairs and barely comes to a screeching stop as he tumbles against the railing (and would have fallen to his certain death).

“Jesus, what’s guy got to do not to get himself killed for once.”

Aramis is one of Athos artsy-friends that Porthos just doesn’t get.

Athos says it’s because Aramis is deeply religious, or used to be and now he has a complex, Athos isn’t sure. Apparently it’s a sensitive topic and Aramis shuts it down. 

Nowadays Aramis makes a lot of Biblical art that has Planet Earth hanging on the cross instead of Jesus Christ, or a wolf crying for its pup in some strange Pietà-shape that’s anatomically incorrect. It’s all very symbolic and metaphorical and apparently it’s making Athos a lot of money.

Although Porthos has known Athos for seven months now, he’s only met Aramis a few times and with the exception of the first time, they’ve only seen each other in passing. The two of them having parallel, yet completely seperate lives.

Athos' douchy friends are divisible into two groups: the rich privileged artsy-ones that talk bullshit while sipping champagne and wines that they don’t actually like and the poor artsy-ones that are trying to convince Athos to sponsor them.

Both groups are terrible and unwelcoming. Whenever Porthos comes out to Athos' gallery he feels out of place, too big, too broad. And there isn’t a single other black person out there in the room that _knows_.

It's not like wants to belong, but he’s been trying to straighten his life since he left Charon and his ilk, a betrayal that keeps him awake even though he knows in every fiber of his being that it was the best choice he could have made.

He likes Athos, so occasionally he says yes when he gets an invite to a new exhibition opening. And perhaps he has secretly desired to get a glimpse of Aramis again since that first time, nobody would know for the better.

“You!”  Aramis exclaims the moment he turns around.

“Me,” Porthos deadpans. Aramis' mouth opens a little, before his faces changes to a grin as he steps towards Porthos .

“Your tie is lose,” Aramis comments. He eases easily into Porthos' private space and slowly straightens his tie. Soft hands worn with use and flecks of paint spread like the blue egg of a blackbird.

Porthos barely manages to control the urge to step back. He tips his head back instead and breathes out through his mouth. This is what Aramis does. Porthos has seen him do it a thousand times and he’s nothing special. The way Aramis always sashays (that’s what he does, sashaying) into rooms, using _toi_ instead of _vous_ with everyone he comes across. Touching their arms softly, charming himself into hearts and leaving just as many heartbroken. 

Up close Aramis smells like freshly shampooed hair and turpentine.

The first time they were this close Aramis had commented that “like a fish-seller will smell like fish long after his retirement, I’ll forever smell of  mineral spirits. ”

Back then they had both been tipsy, more on each other and their closeness than on the few drinks they had. This time neither of them have had a sip. They’re trying to support Athos with his new found sobriety. It's a sign how to recognise Athos 'real' friends nowadays, ironically enough, by their soberness.

Aramis’ eyelashes are dark and long against his cheeks as he fixes Porthos' tie. He’s charming and beautiful and very tempting, but Porthos takes a step back once Aramis is done. He knows what Aramis could potentially be offering. Porthos has never been a man for brief flings, he's too loyal, too emotional, too invested too soon. 

“You mind?” Aramis says as he’s already lighted a cigarette.  
  
Porthos shrugs. The light of the tip burns like a third eye in the night. Predicting the future.

“I don’t normally, you know, but the people out there, they make me crazy.” Aramis smiles. “Well, crazier,” he adds as to assure Porthos.

“I never smoke.”

“That’s good, Porthos, great even. You should definitely keep that up.” Aramis laughs nervously.

Porthos wonders how Aramis knows his name. If he’s asked Athos about Porthos just as subtly as Porthos had asked about Aramis. They never got properly introduced after all.

Aramis leans closer to him. Porthos can see the grey hairs in his beard and somehow that makes him more appealing than he already is. Porthos' hands clench, knuckles going light. The cigarette smells terrible and Porthos turns his head away.  
The evening is hot and clammy and Aramis' presence is just as overwhelming in Porthos' mind as the smell of melting asphalt and flowering acacia’s down below in the Parisian streets.

“So, who you’re hiding from?"

Porthos shrugs. All of them. Everyone. But he says, "I don’t really like nights like these.” 

“Yeah, it can be suffocating.”

Porthos raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“I know, I know,” Aramis says laughing, leaving the unsaid ‘I’m me’ away, “but they all want something for something and never anything for nothing.”

_And what do you want_ , Porthos wants to ask, but he feels that would be too suggestive too soon. Although Aramis doesn’t seem to hold anything back really, ever. Perhaps it’s too soon for Porthos himself.

They hold eye contact for too long.

Porthos wipes his sweaty palms on his black dress pants.

Aramis drops his unfinished cigarette on the ground and stomps it out with the tip on his shoes. Future averted.

“Why did you come then?” he asks.

“Athos asked me to,” Porthos answers honestly. 

Aramis nods like he knows, when Athos asks, you tend to come.

“What about you?”

“The artist,” Aramis says, “his work, it appeals to me. Their use of color is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Uh, to be honest I kinda had hoped they would be here, but Athos says their anonymity is too important to them. Maybe they’re hiding in the crowd as we speak, spying on people to see how their work is received. That would be curious.”

Aramis laughs, shyly almost, as though admitting admiring someone is shameful.

Porthos feels the blush high on his cheeks, he hopes the green neon light of the pharmacy across the street hides it. He wonders whether Aramis knows that it is Porthos his work out there, in the gallery. He doubts that Athos has told Aramis how he met Porthos. How that peculiar stranger came into his life.

“What do you think of that hotheaded twink Athos is currently fucking?”

Aramis does this a lot, change topics, suddenly. His questions always provocative, daring. Never holds his tongue. Porthos admires that, but moreover, he finds it incredibly attractive.

Aramis' mind fleets from story to story like a bee going from flower to flower as their colors promise liquid gold.

"I’m not sure who you’re talking about,” Porthos tries to say neutrally.

“Don't ya now?” Aramis winks.

d’Artagnan is potentially, if not most likely, the reason Athos is trying the sober-thing again. Porthos is not touching that with a ten foot fucking pole. He doesn’t believe one should attach their salvation to another person. Learned that the hard way.

“He’s nice,” he adds, awkwardly. Frankly he’s only seen part of d’Artagnan’s face, because most of the time the boy has his tongue down Athos his throat and waves at Porthos without breaking the kiss. It’s weird. Porthos doesn’t want to think about it.

Aramis makes being queer look so easy and freeing. Porthos was with the same girl for eight years and although he’s certain about his sexuality, he’s a private person and he doesn’t know how to hold himself nowadays.

"I dare you to throw this at that sign over there,” Aramis interrupts his thoughts. He holds up beer cap and points it towards the pharmacy’s sign, “and hit it.”

Porthos stares at the sign. It hangs loosely and could easily fall off, break, or even hit someone.

He hesitates and Aramis notices with his ever watchful eyes. Dark orbs in a starless smog-covered night. Whenever Porthos tries to re-create Aramis' liking in his memory he never gets that right. Black like obsidian.

“Come on, Porthos, it will be fun.”

“I don’t know, could be dangerous."

“Yes, but that’s the fun part.”

Danger as pleasure, that's what Aramis is all about. Porthos suddenly feels the urge to chuck the cap as fast as he can across the street and see the sign shatter in a thousand pieces.

“What’s in it for me?”

Aramis grins, it’s cheeky, reckless and addictive. “You really make it too easy for me Porthos, with those lines of yours.”

Porthos looks away bashfully. 

"Don’t look at me like that, let me concentrate,” he says and grabs the beer cap and peers in concentration at the sign.

“Like what?” Aramis asks.

“You know perfectly well what.” Porthos ignores the look on Aramis' face and throws the beer cap towards the sign. He misses it widely and hears the cap jingle somewhere on the pavement.

Aramis barks out a laugh, amused by his inaptness.

“Now it’s my turn,” he says, with a childlike joy. Glee mixed with competitiveness.

He throws another cap towards the sign and hits it right in the middle.

Porthos stares in disbelief.

“How often have you done this?”

“First time,” Aramis winks. “I wish I had brought my blindfold.”  
  
They throw more caps at the sign until they’re tired with giggling too much and sit down on the stairs going down to the street. Porthos is happy no one’s come looking for them yet. The evening feels endless. Time’s taking her own smoke-break.

“Remember that first time when we spoke?” Porthos feels the sudden need to ask, to understand.

“Yeah, I do,” Aramis responds quickly, eagerly. He nervously runs his hand through his hair, making it stand up like he's been electrocuted.

It makes Porthos smile, chuckling. Aramis stares at him, surprised. He lifts his hand but drops it before he’s touched Porthos’ face.

“You should smile like that more often.”

Porthos hangs his head. Why is Aramis always so direct, too direct?

“And your voice is very deep.” 

Porthos choses to ignore the second comment too. 

Instead he studies Aramis and his eager open face, recalling his version of that night.

“Me too. I mean, I remember it too. You said that it’s ludicrous that we critically analysis Pollock’s appropriation (or possibly appreciation?) of Native American art as a quintessential example of American art history, but when the French discuss Gauguin as a half-God we purposely ignore all his colonial rapist tendencies that would expose his work in a light that we as a society can't bare to look at because it means that we have to face France’s history as a whole, for real. You repeated 'for real' three times.” Porthos grins. "It made you sound pretentious like you did a semester in ethnic studies before dedicating yourself to your 'Art' full time. But the truth is, you were right. One hundred percent.”

Aramis looks surprised and pleased at the same time, like it's a miracle from above that Porthos remembers so well. But after all,  they were pretty drunk and they both had been rambling on all night. About ridiculous topics that don’t bear repeating.

“I was trying to impress you.” Aramis admits.

“Me? Why?”

“Why?” Aramis laughs, it’s a dry laugh, exasperated. “Jesus, how can’t you know?” he mutters softly to himself. "You're not exactly hard to miss."  
  
Porthos feels his expression fall, _right_. Well, it was fun while it lasted. He moves to stand up but Aramis holds him back.  
"Shit, no, sorry. What I mean is that you are really handsome and," Aramis waved at Porthos' his... everything? "And I noticed you all the time, but you never seemed to see me, ever. And I kept watching like uh, like a stalker and you know what I realised I actually like most about you? You never seem to care if people like you and I wanted to know what that was like, to exist without that need to please, to be honest with yourself.”

Porthos isn’t sure what to say, at all. He had no idea.

"You are so different from all those people that I see every day,” Aramis waves towards the closed door of the gallery, "and that evening you wanted to talk to me and that made me so happy. All night I desperately tried to came up with topics to chat about so you would keep sitting next to me and would think I was interesting and intellectual while an hour before I arrived at the party I ate a XL Toblerone bar all by myself in under 5 minutes while staring at three weeks of unwashed dishes.”

Porthos can only  stare .

“I…” he doesn’t know what to say.

“Don’t," Aramis says, "you don't have to say anything. I just, wanted you to know."

Aramis takes the half-smoked cigarette and lights it again. They sit in silence for a while.  
  
"You really mean that?" Porthos asks.  
  
Aramis nods in confirmation.  
  
"Okay," Porthos says, sounding more sure than he is, since he’s freaking out big time, "then I-- then I dare you to kiss me.”  
  
Aramis stares at him with wonder. “I don’t know," he whispers finally, "could be dangerous.” 

“Yes, but that’s the fun part.” Porthos' stomach lurches. He wants to, desperately.

Aramis moves slowly towards Porthos and softly brushes his lips against his before he pulls back, but it’s not enough. It's only a hint of what is possible. Porthos softly brushes his hand over Aramis’ neck and pushes him closer as their lips touch again. It's soft and seeking. A careful meet-up that slowly turns more heated.  
Aramis’ beard brushes against Porthos his cheek as their kiss deepens and deepens. Slick lips slide against each other as Aramis softly pushes his tongue into Porthos’ mouth. Porthos opens easily and something wicked and pleaserable turns in Porthos’ stomach as Aramis becomes more insistent. It’s easy to get completely lost in the feeling as Porthos kisses eagerly back, frantically. He bites Aramis lower lip firmly and the other moans encouragements.

Aramis tries to slide his hands underneath Porthos dress shirt, but it’s too tightly tucked into Porthos' pants and Aramis gets stuck immediately. It stops the passionate concentration as Porthos breaks the kiss and lets out a barking laugh.

“Fuck, are these painted on?” Aramis says while trying to get his hand back. That only makes Porthos laugh louder.

“Come here you,” he says as he brings their mouths back together again, Aramis is easily convinced.   
But the kiss is cut short when two others stumble through the door, behaving even more like teenagers than Aramis and Porthos.

They look up, Aramis’ hand still stuck in Porthos’ pants and recognise their interruptors immediately.

“Aramis!” Athos exclaims scandalously as he stares at the scene.

“Athos!” Aramis shouts back pointing with his free hand at Athos and d’Artagnan’s positions of limbs that are far more explicit than Aramis' hand that's stuck on belt-height.

Porthos tries not to make any eye contact with anyone.

"Uh, hi there," d'Artagnan says looking at Porthos, "I don't think we've met yet."  
He gets shushed by both Aramis and Athos.  
  
"Now's not the time," Athos whispers loudly.

“You know what, what about me and this gorgeous man,” Aramis suggest pointing at Porthos, "go back inside and we'll let you have the semi-public privacy you so desire to have." He's managed to finally free his hand and grabs Porthos’ tightly, hauling him up.

Porthos likes the feeling of Aramis' slightly summer damp hand in his. Maybe this way he won't mind going back to the crowd as much.   
"Yeah, nice to meet you too," Porthos can't help but say to d'Artagnan. The kid is quite striking now that Porthos can see his whole face.  
  
"Now's not the time!" Athos shouts at the same time as Aramis pulls Porthos back inside.

 


End file.
